


Just when you think it can't get any worse

by Tania_me



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Sort of? - Freeform, but not the actual act, emotional breakdown, it references the end of trespasser and what happens to the inquisitor, some people handle it better than others
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 19:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14063631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tania_me/pseuds/Tania_me
Summary: ... it does. But how are you supposed to react when your boyfriend tells you he's an ancient elven god and then chops your arm off?A quick drabble from my Tumblr: Lavellan romanced Solas and does not take his leaving gracefully.





	Just when you think it can't get any worse

“He cut off my fucking arm,” she said.

There was no reply, of course, because the only people around were statues (not well known for their chattiness) and she had left her companions a mirror behind, but some things needed to be said aloud.

“My fucking arm,” she repeated, for emphasis. She couldn’t bring herself to look at it quite yet, still staring at the mirror through which the “he” in question had just moments before disappeared, the tail of the wolf pelt he wore swishing dramatically behind him.

The blasted man always did have a natural drama to him. Who the fuck else would swan up, declare he was the dread wolf, kiss you senseless, and then cut off your fucking arm? Literally no one. No one else would do that.

Lavellan had heard people describe losing their loved ones as feeling like losing a limb, but as she was currently experiencing both feelings at once, she could definitively say: not accurate.

Although probably in the cases of those people, the loved one departing wasn’t also the one responsible for taking that limb with them. She supposed that it was a situation that complicated already complicated emotions.

He took her heart, which was bad enough, disappearing only the gods-knew-where (or can she even call them gods now? Disappearing off to only the powerful-assholes-who-enslaved-their-people knew where didn’t flow off the tongue as nicely) after Corypheus was defeated without even a note, and then she finally tracks him down and the blasted, infuriating man admits he still loves her but oh, by the way, he’s seriously intent on destroying the world, and then he cuts off her fucking arm. Her fucking arm. Her favourite, most used left arm.

It was at that moment she realized she was still kneeling in the puddle. Solas had taken her heart, a kiss, and her arm, and then left her kneeling in a bloody puddle.

She wasn’t sure, at that moment, whether she wanted to save him or slap him more.

She was self aware enough to admit she was wallowing. Both figuratively and literally, actually, as the cold, creeping ooze of stagnant water continued to soak into her leathers. But when your ancient Elven god boyfriend chops your fucking arm off, maybe you deserve to wallow.

But maybe you don’t, she thought, as she heard the bickering of her companions start up behind her. It was nice of Solas to leave the mirror open, she thought.

“Hey, Inquisitor, have you thought about putting statues up in the garden? There are a bunch of Maker’s hairy nutsack, what happened to your arm?”

Her mother had always told her, growing up, that her black sense of humour was an unhealthy coping mechanism that would get her in trouble one day. And Lavellan was someone important now. She was the Herald of Andraste, the leader of the Inquisition. She’d united three warring factions within the Orlesian court while being an apostate elf in ugly red serge. She’d led thousands of men and women into battle. She’d slain an unslayable darkspawn and its pet dragon. She’d convinced an elven god to fall in love with her. She was important, and above the sort of things that - oh, hells. No, that was bullshit window dressing.

“My arm? What do you OH GODS MY ARM AAARGH MY ARM WHAT HAPPENED?” Lavellan screamed, a long, drawn out sound of anguish that was only partly put upon.

And then Varric and Cassandra and Dorian were standing above her, each looking more panicked than the last, and Lavellan remembered that if it was them, she could just be her, and she let go and just fucking cried.

Finally.

She cried for what felt like days, but was only a few minutes, in reality. Cried like she hadn’t since the rift had opened in the sky. Cried about the events of the Conclave, the lives lost, both friends and strangers. Cried over the decisions she’d had to make, decisions where there was no right answer and the choice was just a guess at what would end up with fewer people dead. Cried about leaving Hawke in the Fade and having to tell Varric she’d left his best friend to die.

Three years of absolute, insane, heavy weighty just-fucking-hard bullshit attempting to escape her relatively small frame and it was not a comfortable experience.

And all thanks to a break up. Or a maybe break up. But definitely thanks to a man, which made Lavellan angrier about crying which made her cry harder, all while her three friends fluttered about like a flock of ducks fighting for a treat. If Lavellan had space for any emotions left that weren’t currently leaking from her eyes (and gods, her nose - ugh, her entire face was wet), she’d have spared them for her friends. They were more experienced with sarcasm and anger than this blubbering mess.

“Should we… take her back to the Winter Palace?” Cassandra said, the calloused hands that held a sword with such confidence fluttering about Lavellan like butterflies, torn between offering comforting pats and offering help to stand and providing neither.

“With her looking like this? They’d take one look at her and dissolve the Inquisition in the next breath. I half want to dissolve it and I adore her.” Dorian was patting himself down, sticking his hand into various pockets and pouches in search of something. “Blast it, I know I have a handkerchief somewhere.”

“Oh, for the love of - you two are terrible at this.” With a heavy sigh, Varric waded into the muddy water and enveloped Lavellan in his arms, pressing her gently into his chest. “Just be careful not to wipe your snot on me, all right? It’s hard to wash out.”


End file.
